Special Beings Have Special Souls
by PaulBlartorias
Summary: The Great War is the deadliest conflict in Remnant's history. Countless settlements and countless lives are ruined by the creatures of Grimm, but just as many fall to overzealous armies and opportunistic bandits. A product of the war's early turmoil, Vengarl of Forossa joins the army of Vale to avenge his destroyed home.
1. The Ruins of Forossa

**Disclaimer: I don't own _RWBY_ , nor do I own _Dark Souls_ or its sequels.**

 **Just so any newcomers know what to expect, in this crossover, characters from one world (in this case, Lordran/Drangleic/Lothric) are _adapted_ into the world of the other story (in this case, Remnant). There is no hopping between one world and the other, nor will there be. They were born in Remnant. They have all grown up in Remnant. They will all die in Remnant. Their backstories are certainly influenced by their game-canon counterparts, but altered as I see fit to suit the setting of Remnant.**

 **This particular fic is a Great War-era fic set in the same _Dark Souls_ -adapted Remnant as my other fic, _The First Immortal_ (though you don't require any knowledge of that fic to understand this one).**

 **Let's go, shall we?**

* * *

 **Chapter I – The Ruins of Forossa**

It was at Port Heide, on Sanus' east coast, that Pharis and I parted ways. We'd met in basic training back in the capital and formed something of a friendship, though I suppose we didn't really know that much about each other. Still, at the very least she'd been somebody I could joke around with, if not confide in, and so had been a small comfort in a rather trying time.

But then she'd been assigned to the Yellow Legion, and I to the Blue, and so while she would remain at Port Heide (which I'd visited a few times before the war) I was to travel with a supply shipment north then west to the Royal Wood (which I had never been to before in my life).

I said my goodbyes (I lie: there was only one goodbye) and departed with the supply wagons. There were perhaps a dozen of them, all drawn by horses; escorting them on this last leg was a squad of perhaps forty fresh-faced recruits (myself included) and a handful of more experienced soldiers led by Lieutenant Fern.

At first, we passed through the farmlands around Heide, inhabited with decent folk and with roads well-maintained. City guards were a regular sight, patrolling around the countryside in case of Grimm—or, more likely, to placate the townsfolk and stop them from attracting Grimm in the first place—occasionally accompanied by mercenaries and other less-reputable sorts, hired by wealthier farmers who wanted the extra security.

I even recognised a few of those mercenaries from home.

Then we came along the long stretch of road along Sanus' east coast that remained relatively Grimm-free. There were occasionally inns, and, within the first few days, a settlement consisting of little more than a handful of buildings, but for the most part the land was claimed neither by man nor Grimm, and the road was the only evidence that anybody had ever been there before.

We camped a night in the ruins of Forossa itself. It was a mediocre campsite at best for a number of reasons. For one, the shallow cliffs and deep ocean made it susceptible to attack from the sea by more dangerous varieties of Grimm—more susceptible than any other spot on the east coast, at the very least. Secondly, the town was built on more-or-less flat ground, affording us no easy high ground. And lastly—and this was the kicker—I grew up here.

"You!" I was setting out my bedroll when the lieutenant called me over. We'd set up camp in what was left of the town square; the well still worked, affording us fresh water, and while there were more avenues from which we could be attacked, it was also the only real open space that could hold our retinue. We'd blocked off the wider roads as best we could with the wagons anyway.

I left my bedroll and pack where they were and headed towards the lieutenant. "Ma'am?"

She was a stern woman, easily over fifty and with eyes that spoke of experience, and I withered under her calculating gaze. After a brief visual inspection, she turned to a fox-tailed faunus standing beside her, her face tired. "Another one," she sighed. "Do your thing."

Needless to say, I was somewhat confused, and more than a little worried. I _looked_ old enough to be in the army, right? And my papers hadn't been turned down...

The lieutenant departed, making her way towards main street—what was left of it—to direct the construction of the ramshackle barricade. The fox faunus wrapped an arm around my shoulders and turned me away, his hand gripping firmly. "What's your name, kid?" he asked.

"Vengarl, sir," I said.

He glanced at me, a half-smile of bewilderment on his face. "I'm no sir," he said, "but go ahead! Scratch my ego behind the ears. Look, we've seen fresh faces like your own feeling just a little bit overwhelmed before, and the lieutenant just wanted me to make sure you're not going to, I don't know… lose it. Because that would be bad. You're not gonna lose it, are you Vengarl?"

"No sir."

"See, the lieutenant has an eye for these sorts of things—or, at least, she's been at it a while, so she must be doing something right. Bottom line is this: she says you have a problem, and I trust what she says. So, Vengarl, tell me. What's the problem?" His hand let go of my shoulder, and he turned in place, gesturing to the charred remains of my home town. "Now, I get it. We're all feeling a little jittery. Places like this tend to do that. But-"

"I grew up here," I said.

"Ah." The fox nodded in understanding. "I see." He sighed and ran a hand through his greying red hair. "It's gonna be rough, but we'll be out of here come morning. I just need you to keep it together for one night, alright?" He turned to watch the sun; very little of it remained visible on the horizon. "You know how it is with the bad thoughts, don't you?"

"The Grimm?" I asked. "They're attracted to-"

"-to negative emotions, aye. They used to skip over that in basic training—it scares people off."

"They still do," I said. As far as I knew it was common knowledge. It had been in Forossa, at least, but I suppose in the inner cities things would have been different.

"Well, you've got a good head on your shoulders then," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. He drew forth a flask from his pocket and sipped a bit of it, then offered it to me. "It'll help," he said.

I declined. "I don't drink," I said. Really, I wasn't old enough, and wasn't yet ready to throw that coming-of-age milestone to the wind.

"Then you've picked the wrong career. Hah!" He snorted at his own joke, though I didn't find it quite as amusing. "Get some sleep, and try not to think too much about… all this. It'll all be over soon, Vengarl." He sauntered off towards the lieutenant, taking another sip from his flask before pocketing it once more.

I watched him go until his silhouette became hard to make out in the fading light, then made my way back to my bedroll for the night.

-\/-

Sleep came in short bursts, and what sleep I got was filled with terrifying dreams. Most were twisted renditions of memories: of my lonely flight to the capital from Forossa after its sacking; of a claustrophobic boat-ride back from Vytal over a decade ago; even of that very night, made even more petrifying by a dark figure moving amongst us soldiers. But despite my nightmares, dawn came without incident.

"Up! All of you," barked Lieutenant Fern. "New blood, you've got five minutes to get your packs ready. We've got a long march ahead of us yet. McDonnel, distribute rations. Robb, Gideon, you, and you," she said, pointing to the two closest recruits whose names she clearly hadn't yet learned (and likely had no intention to learn), "water the horses. Dol-"

The lieutenant was cut off by a loud _crack_ that split the air; it had come from one of the wagons blocking main street. She whirled around, her eyes narrowed. "McDonnel," she said, addressing the man whose hands were held close to the wagon, a half-guilty half-panicked look on his face. "What did you do?"

"…I was getting the rations to distribute, ma'am." The wagon was noticeably slumped to one side, the back wheels crooked and slanted. McDonnel glanced down at it, ducked down to check beneath the wagon, then stood, declaring loudly, "Axle's broken, ma'am!"

Lieutenant Fern muttered something inaudible under her breath—likely cursing—and massaged her temples. "Robb!" she roared.

"Hold on, just- here." The fox faunus changed course and headed towards me on his way past the well, shoving a bucket towards me. "Make sure that trough is full," he said, gesturing to one of the troughs we'd set up when we'd made camp. Three of the horses were tethered in front of it. "We might be here a while."

I nodded. He dashed off, leaping over a few still-bleary recruits, and engaged in a quiet, rapid back-and-forth with the lieutenant.

I finished rolling up my bedroll—albeit rather shoddily—and got to work, making trips back and forth from the well.

Maybe ten minutes passed before the lieutenant's voice cut through the air again. "Alright," she called, "everybody listen up." She paused for a moment, her gaze panning over us all to see that she had our attention before she continued. "Wagon's damaged. Shit happens. Good news is, we're in a god forsaken wreck of a town, and I'll be damned if we can't salvage something useful from it."

She turned aside briefly to Robb and muttered something; he said something back and gestured towards me.

"You!" the lieutenant called. "Vengarl, is it? You're from here?"

I pursed my lips. "Yes ma'am."

"Good. Take five of the other fresh-faced idiots with you and go look for something to fix the wagon. You're their guide. If they don't follow your orders, they answer to me." She half-turned towards Robb and her other veteran soldiers, who'd clearly been working with her for a while, before looking back at me. "You know what an axle is, no?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I shouldn't have to thank the gods for that," she remarked dryly. "Get to it." She addressed the veterans, and after a short word they began to divvy up the fresh recruits between themselves and set out into the town.

I picked my five at random, not knowing any of them by name, and, at my word, we set off towards the harbour. I figured that it was likely the most untouched part of the town, and if anything like a handcart had survived we'd have an easily salvageable axle for the wagon. If not, any long, sturdy, round piece of wood or metal would suffice—assuming we had the tools to cut it down to size—and the harbour seemed as good a place as any to look for something of the sort.

It wasn't far. Forossa wasn't _that_ big, after all, at least not compared to the likes of Heide, or of one of the capital cities. But, before it's fall, it'd had the third-largest harbour on the east coast. Before the war, it'd been perfectly positioned to be a resupply point for the Mantle-Heide trade route. Afterwards, it had been both a strategic asset and, at the same time, something of a neutral zone. Tensions had risen until, well…

We picked our way down one of the narrow staircases cut into the cliff face towards the harbour. Abandoned docks stretched further north, giving way to a wide ramp that led up and back around into the town. To the south, the cliffs rose higher and higher, and more narrow staircases (such as the one we descended) were cut into the cliffs to provide quicker access for those with little or no cargo. They'd been built around an unfinished sculpture carved into the side of the cliff—the effigy of a helmed and cloaked hero facing oncoming flames. It was a relic from a generation past, when the northern king's reach had stretched all the way to Sanus. As a child, I'd often wondered where the flames where coming from. I suppose I'll never know.

"Some say it's one of the great manmade wonders of the world," one of my men said; a pale-faced, dark-haired fellow. He was so focused on viewing the sculpture I was worried he'd slip on the stairs.

"Who says that?" I asked.

It wasn't anything I'd ever heard. Not that it was something I paid attention to. I was only aware of the Tower of Flame being on that prestigious list. I was a little more knowledgeable about natural wonders, and had even seen the Emerald Cliffs, the White Tree, and (from afar) Forever Fall with my own eyes.

"I do, for one," the man said. "Or, at the very least, upon beholding it for myself I agree with them, whomever they are. The lieutenant said you lived here, no? What's your take on it?"

"It's lost on me," I said shortly. "I grew up with it."

"Oh." He got the message: that I wasn't entirely comfortable being back here. "I'm… sorry," he said.

The right thing to do would be to ignore him, I mused. We were vulnerable now more than ever to the Grimm. Getting angry wouldn't help anything.

"It's not your fault," I muttered.

"You know," the man said, "before this place was called Forossa, it was called 'Faraam's Jaw'? And before that, even, it-"

"It didn't have a name," I grumbled.

"No, it was called Cape-"

I stopped in my tracks. We were nearing the bottom of the stairs at this point, but the drop down to the harbour was still enough to break bone, should someone fall. I whirled around at the pale-faced man and grabbed the collar of his tunic. He stumbled, and it was only by my grip that he didn't fall. Though he was clearly older than I, I had a few inches of height on him, and he cowered a little beneath my glare. "It didn't have a name," I repeated. I knew that Mantle had named it after some Faraam-era cartographer, and that the name had caught on a little with historians in the other kingdoms. I also knew that it was Forossan tradition to refute anybody who tried to call it 'Cape Kennedy', and there was no way I was going to let that tradition end.

I let him go and continued down the stairs. I wasn't sure if I felt better or worse for it.

"It seems we've started off on the wrong foot," he said, catching up to me, and I became certain that I was feeling worse. "I am Orbeck."

"Vengarl," I responded curtly.

"I-"

"Oh, come of it," one of the other soldiers scoffed. "He's having a rough day."

Orbeck seemed to want to say more, but after realising that the rest of our little party was glaring at him, he subsided.

The remainder of our journey downwards was taken in silence. When we reached the harbour, we all fanned out on my order, checking the crumbling storehouses for anything we could use. The storehouse I searched had already been stripped bare, presumably by looters. A wooden beam poked in through a hole in the roof. Light spilled across the floor, highlighting a thin film of dust. I took a step deeper into the storehouse. Dust spiralled up around my feet.

I rushed back outside, take a gulp of fresh air. This was Forossa, now. This was what was left of it. At least Orbeck's insensitive chatter was better than the silence, the stillness, the deadness in the air.

"I got something!" somebody called.

I proceeded north along the docks, bellowing an order for everybody to group up once more. One of the soldiers emerged from a storehouse carrying an empty handcart; it had a great big chunk blown through its left side, but its wheels and axle seemed in good shape. Hopefully it was big enough to repair the wagon.

"Good," I said. "We'll get it back to the square before we take it apart." I gestured to the northward ramp. "Let's go."

It was a longer route, and partway up the ramp I struck up conversation with Orbeck once more, looking for a distraction. I asked him about the man-made wonders, of which I knew little, and he talked at some length about those that interested him the most: namely the Emerald Council deep within Vale's royal palace; and the ruined cathedral in Vacuo's Old Oasis. He wisely kept the conversation away from the carving in the Forossan cliffside.

We came to the end of the causeway and proceeded back through the town, taking a different route now. It became clear that somebody had returned to Forossa after its fall and buried (or taken) the bodies, for we had yet to see any corpses. I wondered to myself if any of them had been missed. Was there a lonely skeleton somewhere in the town, unable to find peace? Was it somebody I'd known?

As we passed by a particular house, which once had windows that were stained blue (a rather expensive luxury, if I recalled), I held my hand up to indicate that the group should pause.

"Vengarl?" Orbeck asked. His eyes flickered to the surrounding buildings before settling on the one that I was vacantly staring at. "Do you need a moment?"

The door was hanging slightly ajar, I noted. If anybody had been hiding in there, they'd surely met an ill fate.

"I won't be long," I said. The group nodded in understanding. I was glad they understood. I wondered if they'd lost people like this too.

The wall over the old fireplace had collapsed inwards a little. The kitchen table still was still host to the deep red tablecloth that mother had bought from the markets down at Heide, though now it was dusty and frayed, rather more brown than red from all the dirt and grime, and weighed down only by the cracked remnants of a vase. I carefully pushed them away and dragged the cloth off the table, giving it a flick to relieve it of as much dust as I could, before folding it up and hanging it over my arm.

I tried to open up my old room, but found the door jammed. I didn't suppose there was anything of real value to me in there anyway. That room belonged to a much different man, though it had been only a few months. A cursory glance into my parents room revealed that it had been thoroughly ransacked.

I descended into the basement. It too was empty, save for a few empty crates and the cracked remnants of a spear. Somebody had fought down here.

My eyes caught a dark red stain in the corner.

Somebody had died down here.

My jaw clenched and I averted my gaze, doing my best to ignore it. I ran my hand along the wall until I found the loose panel; after a push, a bit of the wall was clicked outwards. I moved over to it and pulled; there was a great grinding sound, but the hidden door eventually opened up enough for me to see inside.

It wasn't a large room; it was more of a closet really. Within, still hanging on the wall, was the armour my father wore on Grimm hunts: a leather gambeson over chainmail. His sword was missing, though that hardly surprised me; my father would have gone down fighting.

He'd want me to have it. It would keep me alive just a little longer, after all, and he was dead now. It was certainly better than the standard-issue equipment, at least—the armour was little more than two metal plates held together by leather straps.

It took me a few minutes to don the armour. While I'd have liked to think that I was the spitting image of my father, but I had the sneaking suspicion I looked more like the little kid trying on his father's clothes.

I suppose I _was_ the little kid trying on his father's clothes.

I tucked the cloth into my belt and made my way back to the group.

* * *

 **Welcome to _Special Beings Have Special Souls_ , or, henceforth, _SBHSS_ , which is an acronym I'm never going to get right first go.**

 **Now, in RWBY canon literally the only characters I have to work with from this era are the monarchs of each kingdom and Jaune Arc's ancestor, only one of whom is given any special role and none of whom are named. I don't have enough _Dark Souls_ characters to fill every bit role, nor would I want to do that, so yes, there'll be a few OCs in minor roles, such as Lieutenant Fern and her merry band of supply-shipment-guarding men who will likely never appear again.**

 **I do actually have a map .png for this fic to keep track of all the locations, and I'll probably put an edited-down version with only the already-mentioned locations online on Friday for those interested.**

 **Have I shamelessly begged for followers/favourites/reviews yet? Well, I am now. Follow/favourite/review to your heart's content and then some.**

 **At this point, I don't have a hard-boiled update schedule for _SBHSS_ , and likely won't until _TFI_ goes on hiatus, so just keep your ears to the ground.**


	2. The Vytal Strait

**Sorry if I left anyone waiting. Now that I'm on hiatus for _TFI_ , though, this'll be getting my full attention. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **Chapter II – The Vytal Strait**

We were on our way before long, following the road west. There was around a month's travel yet before we reached the Blue Legion's camp, and Orbeck and I spent much of our time on the road talking. Or, rather, _he_ did most of the talking. Though now he was a soldier, he thought of himself first and foremost as a scholar, and as I quickly learned, he didn't confine his scholarly interests to a single field. Our conversations varied wildly on topics, from history to applied dust usage to Grimm behavioural observation, and while I had little to offer of my own on such subjects I was more than happy to listen.

To our good fortune, the journey was from that point onwards rather uneventful. The region along the coast between the wood and Forossa hadn't been settled by humans or faunus ever, to my knowledge—or, as I found out, to Orbeck's knowledge either. The road, previously paved or (in some parts) cobbled, gave way to a narrow path that was little more than two comparatively grass-free ruts in the ground, and was the only sign that anybody had ever been here before.

Weeks passed. Vytal came into view across the strait. The relatively flat terrain of eastern Sanus gave way to the streams in the mountain range's foothills. The coast veered north, but the road continued west for a time. The trees grew taller and more plentiful, obscuring the coastline long before it would have dipped below the horizon.

We came upon the Blue Legion camp on an evening late in spring. It was well-fortified, surrounded by walls of pointed stakes raised to the height of two men. Outside the walls We were halted by the guards at the gate, but Lieutenant Fern waved a sealed letter and them and barked some orders at them, and we were soon permitted entry.

I say 'gate', but it was more of a gap in the wall, really. Likely, they lacked the skills or resources to build proper gates. The entrance was wide enough for seven or eight men to enter through it shoulder-to-shoulder.

Through the entrance we emerged into a clear space, probably a mustering area of sorts. Towards one wall were rows and rows of low tents, uniform in shape and size (but certainly not in colour: though they were all off-white canvas, some were far dirtier and stained than others). On the right was a single long tent, a larger canopy at its far end. Ahead was what appeared to be the command tent: a round, tall tent, its fabric dyed a mottled green with the crossed axes of Vale emblazoned on its sides, and with a blue pennant waving from the tentpole. Yet more tents stretched behind the pavilion.

Lieutenant Fern instructed us to wait for further instructions. She and her troops guided the wagons towards the long tent, the lieutenant bellowing for the quartermaster.

After a few minutes of waiting, a blond man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, in a blue coat and with a fine sword sheathed at his side emerged from the command tent. With him was a woman with a hat pulled down to cover her face.

"You must be the new recruits," the man said.

A few people nodded. Most people shifted awkwardly under his gaze.

"Try 'yes sir' in the future," the woman drawled.

"Eh. If they like. As long as they give a proper response," the man responded. "I'm Commander Arc. If you're the new recruits—and it certainly seems you are—I'm _your_ commander."

One of the soldiers near the front of the group stood to attention. "Yes sir!"

"Hmm. Kiss-ass." He turned to the woman at his side. "You can have him."

"Don't want him."

Commander Arc pursed his lips. "Fine. Alright, form up!" he called.

Oh. Right. Formality and all that. We shuffled about, reorganising from a huddled group into four rows of ten. I made sure to stand a few rows back.

"Faster than the last lot, at least," the commander chuckled. "Take your pick."

The woman stepped forwards, lifting her hat a little to survey us. "You. You. You. And…" she pointed one at a time, but here her finger traced the air uncertainly. "…you." She pointed to Orbeck. "With me." She departed for the tents behind the command pavilion. Orbeck looked back at me and shrugged, then disappeared around the corner.

"Well then!" Commander Arc clapped once, bringing our attention back to him. "Let's get started."

-\/-

I ended up in one of the uniform tents. They were large enough to house four people, though it was still a little cramped. One of them had already been in the camp a while, and from her I learned of the current situation.

Mantle had landed an army on Vytal, giving them a clear road straight to the capital. The Blue Legion had been dispatched to hold them here; at low tide, the strait between Sanus and Vytal was shallow enough to be forded, but as long as we held our side, they couldn't cross without heavy losses.

I quickly settled into a routine. In the mornings, I—and some of the other new recruits—would leave camp to fetch fresh water from a nearby river. During the day, I would train. And at night, I would sleep or—on some nights—keep watch.

This was my life. Monotony. For the first few days, at least, I felt some underlying excitement, but that quickly faded when I realised that we were stuck here, waiting for Mantle to make the first move. We could very well end up stuck here for the rest of the war.

From Orbeck, I learned that he and the others chosen by the woman—Lucatiel, apparently, was her name—had joined the 'Grimmbait': the soldiers whose job it would be to retreat from the main battle line and fend off the Grimm, in the event of a Grimm attack. In theory, they would also be the ones to break off and defend against flanking manoeuvres, but as long as we caught them at the crossing they likely wouldn't have any space to flank anyway.

I found that interesting enough, at least, and I drilled him with questions about it, but it quickly became apparent that his role was hardly more entertaining than mine. During the day, he and the other Grimmbait would leave camp to clear the immediate area of Grimm. Except there _were_ no Grimm—not nearby, at least. They'd already been cleared before our arrival. But at least the Grimmbait could—on occasion—augment our food stores with squirrels and pheasants and, rarely, a deer.

That was marginally more interesting than my routine, at least.

-\/-

With so many soldiers in the camp, there were more than enough people to keep watch while others slept. Outside the walls—particularly along the northern edge of the wood—were numerous ramshackle wooden platforms nailed to the sides of trees, used as sentry outposts. Most were on the northern treeline, overlooking the coast, though some guarded the approach from the east or west. There were always two people appointed to an outpost at a time in two-hour shifts, though they overlapped in such a way that one person would leave and another would arrive halfway through a watchman's shift.

It was on one of the last nights of summer that Orbeck arrived partway through my shift. "You're on watch?" I reached down to Orbeck as he climbed the ladder to the sentry post, helping to pull him up. He took it gratefully. "Thought Grimmbait were exempted."

The man Orbeck had come to replace, gave us short nods, then departed.

"I smart-mouthed somebody I really shouldn't have," Orbeck said vaguely. "Nothing too serious. I'll have shifts for a few weeks."

"What'd you say?"

He hesitated before responding. "It doesn't matter." He set his back to the tree and sighed, his eyes scanning the coastline. "It'd be easier if they put faunus on the nightshift," he murmured.

"Don't have enough faunus," I responded.

"Hmm. That's true."

For a few minutes, we did not speak, keeping our eyes peeled.

"Your family," Orbeck said, breaking the comfortable silence. "Do you know what happened to them?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"I… hmm. I can respect that." He sighed. "My wife didn't want me to enlist."

"You're married?" It was the first I'd heard of it. Thus far we'd hardly spoken about anything personal. All he really knew about me was that I grew up in Forossa, and all I knew about him was that he was something of an intellectual, and, now, that he was married. I glanced to his hands. He didn't wear a ring, though I could understand why he might want to leave that behind. It could be too easily lost in war.

"Aye. I've got a daughter back home too." He shrugged. "Wish I had a photo or something to show you, but photos aren't exactly cheap. Maybe in a few decades," he chuckled softly. "I hope I live that long."

"Why _did_ you enlist?"

"I wanted to see the world," he said. "I wanted to see history as it was made."

"We haven't been doing much of that," Vengarl muttered.

"In time, my friend. Somebody's gotta guard the north." He pinched the bridge of his nose, and all of a sudden seemed overwhelmingly tired. "We'll have our turn."

I ran a hand through my hair. Somewhere, not too far from us, a bird called out loudly. Orbeck flinched.

"Mantle killed my family," I said at last.

"Well, Forossa was certainly destroyed, but they still could have gotten out alive," Orbeck pointed out.

"No." I shook my head. "I… I didn't see it. But I know they're dead."

Orbeck sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," I said shortly.

We watched in silence for a time. Again, Orbeck was the one to break it. "Some say that Mantle has fallen far since the days of Faraam."

"So you've said."

"Fine. I need to say something. All this… quietness."

"Silence?"

"Mm-hmm."

A decided to humour him. He did love to talk history, and he talked about it well. "And _who_ says that about Mantle?"

"I do. They built… they built things, beautiful things. They cured diseases. They explored the deepest forests of Anima, made ungodly weapons. They painted, they sculpted, they wrote. They crushed the largest Grimm in recorded history and made the North Sea theirs."

"And they conquered."

"Aye. They conquered. Some things don't change." He sighed. "It's a miracle that Mistral was willing to go to the table. Shame that they banded together against Vale, though."

I nodded. 'Shame' didn't do it justice.

"And now the poets and sculptors and artists are all gone. I just…" he trailed off at the sound of footsteps, and we glanced over the edge of the platform, searching for their source.

"Here to relieve the watch?" the soldier said, torch in-hand.

Right. It was time for me to go.

"It's just a shame," Orbeck said, wearing a half-smile. "Cheers, Vengarl."

"Hmm?"

"Never mind. Almost dawn anyway. Get some sleep."

It was only a ten-minute walk back to camp. I lay down on my bedroll, careful not to wake the others in my tent, and waited for sleep to claim me.

It never came, for within another ten minutes, a warhorn blasted through the night air with four short notes.

Mantle was coming. This was it. Revenge for Forossa.

"To arms!"

The air was filled with the clanging of metal and the jingling of chainmail. After hardly a minute, soldiers began pouring out of their tents, many still buckling belts and strapping weapons to their sides. Commander Arc emerged, still fiddling with a strap on his breastplate before shrugging his coat on over it.

"Form a column, come on now! Hurry up! Let's get moving now!"

We wasted a few precious minutes organising ourselves into a marching formation before setting out. Though there were more of us travelling to the strait, the Commander set a faster pace than I'd walked coming back. Regardless, by the time we'd arrived, Mantle had already formed a thin battle line on the bank.

They'd forded the strait very quickly.

The commander's voice carried over the din of clanking metal and boots striking the ground, and, following his orders, we formed a battle line, raising big, heavy rectangular shields. I was in the front—as most of the fresh recruits were—and though I was a little winded from our rushed pace, our orders were simply to cower behind the shields for the time being. While Mantle's line was still weak, they had their rifles trained on us. We'd been told that they could only shoot perhaps one round per minute, but a wild charge on their line would still be cause too many casualties.

"Advance!"

We followed orders, taking it step by step, our shields locked together. Many shields were little more than boards of wood, though I was fortunate enough to have received one made of metal.

A burst of rifle fire split the air, and something dented my shield. A wave of heat burst around me. Dust rounds.

"Charge!" It did mean, of course, that they couldn't shoot for a while. "Drive them back into the sea!"

We followed orders.

Boots pounded against the packed dirt ground that grew rockier the further we went. More soldiers crested the ridge that marked the shoreline, but before they could shoot, we crashed against them.

A bayonet aimed at my face was knocked aside by my shield, and I carried the momentum into a shoulder-charge that sent my foe teetering on the edge of the cliff. It was only a short drop behind him into the ford, but the water was still shallow and it would surely injure if not kill him. But before I could knock him down, another soldier stepped in to take his place, swinging for my right arm. I parried, then twisted, bringing my shield around to block his second strike. The man on my right sliced into my opponent's shoulder, and, with a cry of pain, he fell back, dropping his rifle.

"Thanks."

A grunt in response.

Another came for me, trying to twist past my guard and get through our line to attack from behind. I swung for his legs. He tried to dance over my blade, but I caught his right leg, scoring a long wound on it and unbalancing him, sending him careening to the ground. His face slammed into the rocky ground, and he did not move.

"Gah!" Blood oozed from his face, and only the impending threat of death was able to turn my gaze away. Somebody stabbed for my left shoulder, and I barely moved my shield in place in time to block it, taking a step backwards on instinct.

The next strike jarred my arm, and the one after that forced my guard open. He slashed for my chest, but I dropped my shield to duck the strike, gripping my weapon with two hands and pushing forwards into a clumsy stab that slipped under his ribcage.

With a roar, I carried him forwards, retaking my place in the battle line and shoving him unceremoniously off my blade. He rolled as he hit the ground, and toppled back off the ridge, leaving only a streak of blood on the rocks.

"Keep it together." The man on my right, noticing my vacant gaze, laid a hand on my shoulder in the small lull we had. "It's us or them."

I nodded.

A series of _cracks_ split the air, and he slumped to the ground, blood oozing from the hole in his head.

"Fuck!" Down in the ford, a line of soldiers had formed to fire up at us as we waited for them on the ridge. They were reloading now, and I reached down to grab my fallen ally's shield just as more soldiers crested the ridge, these ones clearly shock infantry of a sort, wielding long, thin blades and small bucklers.

More men moved up from behind to shore up our line, but we lost the valuable ground at the top of the ridge, backing almost halfway back to the treeline. Mantle soldiers clambered up from the ford unopposed, and we were hard-pressed to hold them back. They certainly seemed to outnumber us.

I fought until my arms felt they might drop off of their own accord. I accumulated scratches and bruises on my arms, and one somewhat deeper wound on my left leg. When I blinked, I saw red rather than black. I couldn't wipe the blood from my mind. _Why had I wanted this?_

"It's me or them," I repeated to myself. "It's me or them."

I just had to keep it together.

The warhorn sounded again, this time with three blasts. I was too tired to remember what that meant.

When the Beowolf came leaping for my throat, however, I remembered.

Desperately slashing at it with my sword, I was able to turn its head aside, but it still slammed bodily into me, tackling me to the ground. All its weight rest on my chest, the sharp claws of its front paw closing around me. My sword fell from my grasp, and again it lunged for my throat.

I kicked as hard as I could, trying to push it off me, but did little but unbalance it—at the very least, its jaws clamped on dirt and stone rather than around my throat, though it also tightened its grip around my, and its claws dug deep into flesh.

Roaring, it relinquished its grip and reared up to slash at me with its claws. Feebly I raised my arms to block the strike, knowing it had little chance of succeeding.

Something—somebody—cut of its arm. It screamed in pain and staggered away, and I let out a sigh of relief.

The blonde woman, the Commander's trusted second… he found her name after a moment. Lucatiel relentlessly pursued the Beowolf. Golden sparks crackled from her skin when it managed to land a hit, but she quickly dispatched it, an elegant, controlled strike beheading the beast.

She spared me only one glance, a frown on her face, before she disappeared into the fray.

Groaning, the world beginning to spin around me, I grabbed my sword. When I tried to clamber to my feet, my vision went dark, and the ground rushed towards me.

-\/-

"You awake, kid?"

Blearily, I opened my eyes. The greyish green canopy of the medical tent looked down at me.

"Yeah. You're awake."

Wincing a little from the sharp pain in my side, I pushed myself upright and looked over. The commander stood nearby, watching me, the woman who'd saved my life guarding the entrance to the tent.

"Commander? What happened?"

"How old are you, kid?"

"…eighteen." It was the age on my papers, and the minimum age to enlist.

"We both know that's a lie." The commander sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You're a child."

"I'm not-"

"Don't insult me. You're a kid. How old are you?"

I answered honestly this time. "Fifteen."

He frowned. "Younger than I thought."

"I can fight. I _did_ fight."

Lucatiel snorted.

"What's your name, kid?" Commander Arc asked.

"Vengarl Sand, sir."

"This is no place for you. If you die-"

"I… I can do this." I _needed_ to do this. For Forossa. I'd panicked back in the battle. Almost lost my nerve. But I'd kept fighting. It was me or them. I could do better. I _would_ do better.

"That's a bold claim." The commander's eyes grew dark. "But it's on my conscience too. When the supply shipment comes around again, you'll leave with them for the capital."

"Kid thinks he can fight." Lucatiel moved closer. "I say let him."

"You're not helping," the commander said, pointing an accusing finger at her. "This is my final decision."

"But-"

"No!" Commander Arc roared. A long breath escaped him, and he began to pace, massaging his temples. "It's for your own good. Until then, sleep in Lucatiel's tent."

"Sir?"

"I'm not a babysitter."

"I don't want the kid running off and getting himself killed even faster."

I sunk back down, feeling my heart sink. "I won't."

"I don't exactly trust that," the commander said. "Shadow me while Lucatiel's hunting Grimm, though. Trust us, kid. We know what we're doing."

"He makes it up as he goes along," Lucatiel said. "And you owe me ten lien, by the way."

"You're _really_ not helping."

* * *

 **Something I didn't anticipate after publishing the first chapter (but really I should have) is that it restricted me into a particular style. This first-person stuff forces a more exposition-dump style than what I'm accustomed to with _TFI_ , at least for the early chapters. That's not _necessarily_ a bad thing, though. It'll be a learning experience.**

 **Thanks to _TFI_ , many of the characters' fates are already known by you readers, including Vengarl, Commander Arc and, to a lesser extent, Lucatiel. It means that putting them in mortal danger isn't an effective way to create tension. They have plot armour, but, like, _super_ plot armour. So I have to create conflict in other ways. That's where Orbeck and, later, Pharis will come in. Right now, it's Vengarl's lack of familiarity with blood and death conflicting with his hatred of Mantle. It's also Commander Arc's moral compass saying 'don't send kids into battle' conflicting with Vengarl's desire to, well, fight.**

 **Now, an omake. If people hate them, I'll stop, but hey, why not? The suggestion for omakes (from the reviews for _TFI_ ) was omakes "based on the characters in this series interacting/fighting their respective characters from dark souls." Not all of them will follow that concept, but this one will.**

* * *

"And it won't hurt?" Artorias glanced down at his body, glowing in hues of white and pale blue.

"Hmm?" Winter led him across a narrow stone bridge, the stone railings crumbling away in places and covered in moss.

"You said I can't die, but that's not what I'm worried about."

"I never said that. I said I could bring you back." She spun a glyph into being, flipping it between the fingers of her left hand.

"…but it won't hurt?"

"The summoning? Did it hurt the first time?" With a contemptuous flick of her wrist, her sabre slashed off the arm of a weird tree-thing that had run at her with a pitchfork.

"Well, no, but I'm asking if the _dying_ thing would hurt. I don't exactly have aura like this."

"Why wouldn't it?"

"I was just wondering if being made of _your_ aura would make me immune to pain."

She halted in her tracks and turned to face him, eyes cast upwards in thought. "…maybe," she said.

Artorias sighed and hefted his sword back onto his shoulder. "Great."

They continued onwards. The thick wood gave way to a number of pits that descended into the ground around them, leaking a strange, inky blackness that seemed to have formed into small crystalline structures on the surface.

"Where are we going again?"

"Patience, Artorias."

Cutting down a pair of animated statues (and a few more tree-people) cleared the way to another bridge, this one shorter, with a man in a coat and hat leaning against the cliff at its other side. A great colosseum loomed a short distance away.

"Thought you were driven crazy," the man said to Artorias as they passed.

"Don't spoil it, Chester," Winter said, before Artorias could respond.

"Whatever would I spoil?"

"Never mind. Come on, Artorias."

He followed her to the colosseum's entrance, which was strangely shrouded by white fog. "What was that all about?"

"Don't worry about it," Winter dismissed. "We're here."

Artorias examined the shrouded archway closely. "And where _is_ here?" He reached out to touch it and found it firm and unforgiving. Cautiously, he leaned more weight against it.

Winter smirked. "Follow me."

She stepped straight through the fog, which promptly gave way. Artorias spilled through to the other side.

A strange beast in the arena's centre turned towards them, near-humanoid but with a bloated head full of burning red eyes, its arms elongated and bent at odd angles. Curiously, Artorias reached out to listen to its chattering with his semblance, but could make no sense of it.

Then…

 _Panic!_

A warrior fell from above, impaling the creature on its blade.

Artorias looked dumbly at the warrior, taking in the familiar parts of its outfit in an instant—its sword, its pauldron, its cloak—then to his own blade, inspecting it closely. "Huh."

The warrior, hunched over, turned to face them. Beneath his hood, his face was shrouded, but Artorias had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched.

"So, he's…"

"You. Yep. Basically. I'll let you, ah, _talk._ _"_ Winter sheathed her sabre and stood off to the side a little.

"I don't like the way you said that," Artorias sighed. He looked back to his double-

And that was as far as he got, because there was a _thing_ filling his vision, flailing long arms all over the place and with bulbous red eyes hanging from its face. With a surprised yelp, Artorias dodged to the side, only to feel a blade smash against his pauldron moments later, sending him flying into the wall.

"I thought you said we could talk!"

"You may as well try," she called back.

Artorias didn't like his chances.

He scampered backwards, giving ground beneath his double's mindless onslaught. Through the whirlwind of steel, by the wall near the entrance, he saw Winter pull a tub of popcorn from a glyph and give him a thumbs-up.

"Son of a…"

* * *

 **Next chapter - January 26th.**


	3. The Supply Train

**Chapter III** **–** **The Supply Train**

"We were hanging back," Orbeck explained. "Hanging back a little too far, unfortunately. The woods seemed clear of Grimm, so we weren't too worried."

"But you should have been?"

"But we should have been." Orbeck shrugged and returned his attention to his food.

It was the second day after the battle, and only this morning I'd been released from the medical tent, though I still had a thick bandage wrapped around my waist beneath my clothes. "At least the Grimm routed Mantle, right?"

Through a mouthful of gruel, Orbeck hummed and nodded.

For a while, the only sound was the rough clanking of pewter spoons against pewter bowls. The food was little more than a mix of wheat flour and boiled water, and though it was hardly fit for kings or lords, we were neither.

Further along the table, Lucatiel stood. Orbeck's eyes widened, and he finished shovelling his food into his mouth. "Can't be late," he explained between mouthfuls. "Got Grimm to hunt."

He was done soon after, and departed with the other soldiers under Lucatiel's command. They'd be busy, I thought. So soon after the battle, the woods were probably still teeming with Grimm.

"Finish up, kid." I was startled from my thoughts. The commander passed by, returning his crockery to the makeshift kitchen. "I've got work to do."

I nodded sharply and quickly ate what was left my gruel. By the time I was leaving, the mess tent was still mostly full. I supposed that the soldiers not part of the Grimmbait and without a shift on watch for the day could afford to be slow.

I made my way towards the command pavilion. I'd not yet been inside, as I'd had no reason to. In fact, I'd avoided having a reason to enter. I hadn't wanted to be recognised as underage, especially not by somebody who could do something about it. Of course, it was a little too late for that now.

The pavilion was rather bare, with a low cot towards the back where the commander slept, a large rectangular table in its centre, and a second, smaller round table off to the side. It was at this table that the commander sat, pen in hand, eyes focused on the parchment.

"Sir?" I prompted.

"Take a seat," he gestured across from him.

I stole a glance at the larger table as I passed it. A detailed map of northern Sanus was laid across it, weighed down by the commander's sword. The map was bounded on the south-west by the capital, on the east by Heide, and on the north by Vytal.

I sat as instructed. He didn't say anything for a while, continuing to scratch letters onto the parchment.

"You could have died," he said at last, matter-of-factly, placing his dip-pen back into its ink pot. He blew on the parchment to dry the ink.

"I could have," I acknowledged.

"You _would_ have, if not for Lucatiel."

I grimaced. "Maybe."

"You don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation."

"I could have died," I repeated. "So could anybody else in that battle. Some people _did_."

"And that's a price you're willing to pay, is it?"

I didn't really know how to respond to that. Part of me said yes. Yes, I was willing to die, if I could only take them down with me. And I'd done my part. I'd… I'd killed.

But then that reminded me of the look on their faces as they'd died. The shock of an unexpected gunshot. The terror as the darkness closed in.

Was I ready for that?

I wanted to be brave and say yes. And as long as I pretended to be, I _would_ be. I'd have to be. It wasn't a matter of being unafraid. It was a matter of wrestling that fear to the ground and beating it to a bloody pulp. Revenge for Forossa mattered more to me than a fear of death.

"Perhaps you are," the commander acknowledged. He'd gone back to writing while I'd been thinking, filling up a new page. "But it's not your choice alone. Even if I let you fight, your existence in the army would alter my decisions. I couldn't knowingly send you to your death."

"But you could if I was three years older?"

"It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?"

"This is exactly why." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do you want to fight?"

"Mantle destroyed my home."

"And how long ago was that?"

I could remember it clearly enough. The trees had been hues of red and orange, and the air had been growing cold. Ten months? Eleven months, maybe? "Almost a year," I said.

"And you have dedicated all that time to being right here, haven't you?" He shook his head. He already knew the answer. "You deserve the chance to grow up."

"I-"

"Look at that map for me," he instructed.

"Sir, I-"

"I have work to do, kid."

I clamped my mouth shut, though I wanted to speak further, and made my way over to the map. "Remind me how many sentry posts we have," the commander said. "I need to assign new watchmen to fill for the casualties from the battle."

"Seven," I said. They were marked clearly in red around the campsite. "And the front gate."

"Hmm. Thought it was six. Thank you." He grabbed another sheet of parchment and began writing again.

I stayed looking at the map. The name 'Forossa' was crossed out in red.

"The next supply train should arrive within the week."

"And I'm to leave with them?" I asked tiredly.

"Good. You've been listening."

-\/-

As an officer, Lucatiel's tent was a little more spacious than the cramped tent I'd slept in before, with a little cot against one side, beneath which her pack was messily stuffed. It seemed she hadn't been sharing the tent with anyone.

Well, besides me. But I supposed I was an exception.

The commander had handed me off to her when the Grimmbait had returned to the camp late in the evening, with a few men missing and many fielding minor wounds. Lucatiel wasn't wounded, but, covered in black blood, she'd instructed me to wait in her tent while she cleaned herself off and ate her evening meal. I'd done as ordered and laid my bedroll down in preparation for the night.

"You're still here."

I glanced up at the tent flap. Lucatiel entered, her hair a little damp.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

She shrugged and sat on her cot, pulling her boots off and propping her sword against the foot of her cot. "I didn't think you wanted to be shipped back to the capital."

"Isn't it your job to make sure I don't run off?"

"Doesn't bother me so much. People can do what they want."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you want to join the army, it's not my place to tell you not to. I mean that I don't think it's Joseph's—the commander's—either. You're responsible for your own life." She shrugged, then lay down. "He doesn't see it that way, of course. But if you don't want to be sent back home, it's your responsibility to make sure it doesn't happen."

"That's not my home."

"Sorry," she said. She didn't sound particularly sorry. "It _should_ be my job to keep you here, and it is. But I'd be willing to turn a blind eye. I think you can handle yourself."

"Oh really?" I recalled that she'd disagreed on that point back in the infirmary.

"Jokes aside, it's our fault the Grimm got through, not yours." Jokes? She didn't seem the most humorous type. "Most people don't like being flanked. Can hardly blame you."

She had a blunt outlook on life, at least.

"You saved my life."

"I did," she agreed. "Probably shouldn't have mentioned that to the commander though. Said you looked like a kid, and he got all angry."

"What?"

"I know, right? How dare he get angry that I save the lives of children?"

"No, it's-"

"Oh, I know what you mean. Anyway, he got curious and went to see if you really were a kid."

"And then it turned out I was." That explained how I'd been caught, anyway. The way Lucatiel dismissed it so nonchalantly should have made me upset with her. But it didn't.

It felt like she was on my side.

"Still are," Lucatiel corrected. "Look, kid—what's your name again? Vanessa?"

"Vengarl. Why would you even think-"

"You sure I can't call you Vanessa?"

I sighed. "Please don't."

"I've got a long day tomorrow. I'm talking Beowolves. I'm talking Creeps. I'm talking Ursae. I need to sleep. Feel free to sneak off in the night."

"Won't the commander-"

"Don't worry about the commander. Worry about yourself." She rolled over to face away, and said no more.

I didn't run.

-\/-

Another day went by. The supply train, I presumed, drew closer. Again, I spent the day shadowing Commander Arc and assisted him with paperwork, though there was even less that I could do today—he was reading through the letters being prepared to be sent to the capital, scouring them for information that was confidential.

It was a promise of monotony. But I preferred monotony over being sent back to the capital.

And at night, again, I spoke with Lucatiel.

"Why haven't you run yet?"

"Really?" That was her first question?

"Yes. Really." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "You want to fight. You won't have a chance here."

"I won't have a chance at _living_ if I fight alone."

"There are other options," she said. "Mercenary work, perhaps. Whatever. It's not my problem." Boots off, sword propped up, she laid down on her cot.

I looked at her, my eyes narrowed. "You saved my life."

"We've been over this," she said. "It's my job."

"I saw you take a blow," I said. "You have aura."

She paused, then sat up again to look at me, her head tilted curiously. "I do," she said. "Why?"

Back home, very few outside of the Northwarder priests had their auras unlocked. I didn't know why. I didn't know how it was unlocked. I could only imagine that it was a rarity in other places as well. "Well," I said, "I want to know how to unlock it." Because having aura was not only an aid in battle, it symbolised… something. Power, perhaps. Status.

I thought it might prove to the commander that I was worthy of staying.

She continued to watch me silently, her eyes narrowed. "I know of only three ways to unlock aura," she said at last. "The first is to be in a high-stress situation. Something life-threatening."

"I've been-"

"It's not a done deal," she said, cutting me off. "It doesn't always work. I think it's more common in children."

"Are you suggesting something?"

"Not at all." She clearly was. "But given the risk of death, I wouldn't recommend it, though if you want to try it again, more power to you."

"I'll pass."

"Naturally. The second is achieved through meditation. Don't ask me how it works."

I rolled my eyes. "I won't. And the third?"

"You can have somebody else unlock it for you: somebody whose aura is already unlocked."

That was convenient. "Can you do it?"

"I could, I think." Lucatiel shrugged. "But I won't."

"Why not?"

"It's an intimate process. A melding of two souls—however brief—is a serious matter. And besides: it's not my problem." She lay down and rolled over. I supposed that meant she was done talking for the night.

I stayed awake for some time, meditating. I didn't know what that entailed beyond 'sitting still', but I thought it worth a try.

-\/-

"You look tired." Orbeck sat next to me the next morning, placing his bowl down on the long table. His eyes searched my face. "Didn't think you were being put on the watch."

"I wasn't," I said.

"Then why are you tired?"

"Why are _you_ tired?" I asked. He didn't look so good himself, with bags hanging from his eyes.

"Because I _was_ on watch." He rolled his eyes and turned back to his food. "Never mind."

"Do you know anything about aura?" I asked him.

"Nothing you wouldn't already know," he said. "Well, I don't think I would, anyway." He shrugged. "What's the-"

"We're going." Lucatiel passed by in a hurry, dragging Orbeck up by his collar. He wasn't the only one; as she went down the table, she picked up some of her other soldiers.

Orbeck coughed as she set him down. "But we-"

"No time. Emergency."

"What's going on?" I asked. She ignored me, breaking into a run as she departed the mess tent.

Orbeck turned to me and shrugged, then followed her out.

I looked for the commander and, when I couldn't see him, wolfed down my breakfast and left the tent, heading straight for the command pavilion.

"-in two," I heard the commander say, catching the tail end of a sentence. He, Lucatiel, and several of the Grimmbait, including Orbeck, were gathered around the map. "We'll take the western sentry post. You search the east. Be thorough." He glanced up at me. "What are you- you stay in the camp. No. Dammit. Everybody out!" He waved his arms, ushering for everybody to leave. I turned to leave, but the commander called out to me. "Not you!"

I turned back to him, lips pursed. Everybody else filed outside. "What?"

"Stay here," he said. "Don't touch anything. Don't leave the camp—hell, don't leave the pavilion. I need to be sure you won't go and get yourself killed."

"Yes sir."

"I mean it. Lucatiel's told me she's basically told you to run off. Don't mind her."

"Uh…"

"Look, that's not a test or something, that's just Lucatiel being a pain in my ass, alright? But that doesn't mean you should listen to her. You _are_ our responsibility. Stay. Here."

He didn't wait for me to say anything before leaving. Outside, I heard them hurriedly organising into two groups, then they began to march away until only silence remained.

I was confused. Lucatiel wasn't _encouraging_ me to leave. She was being… well, apathetic seemed the right word to use.

But this _was_ a chance to do just that. I could probably outrun the guards at the gate. I probably wasn't worth chasing to them, in all honesty. They had bigger concerns than a kid. I could run to Heide, perhaps. There hadn't been a chance for word to reach them that I was underage. And even if I couldn't re-enlist, there was plenty of mercenary work to be found in the area.

Or…

I could stay put.

The commander was right. I'd put all of my time since the fall of Forossa towards being where I was now: in the army. In the Blue Legion. And even if that were to change soon, I didn't want to start over.

This was it, I realised. I didn't want to waste my time running away again. Mantle wouldn't wait. I would fight Mantle under Commander Arc's banner, or I wouldn't at all.

It was almost dusk when the commander returned. I heard him dismiss the troops in the mustering field before entering the pavilion, Lucatiel in tow.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You didn't run," Lucatiel said. I wasn't sure what it was I heard in her voice. Boredom? Most likely. Disappointment? Perhaps.

I didn't respond to her either way.

Commander Arc regarded me coolly for a moment before responding. "None of the watchmen assigned to the northernmost posts returned last night," he said. The northernmost sentry posts were the ones overlooking the strait: the most important ones.

"Grimm?" I asked.

He shrugged, unstrapping his pauldrons and tossing them to the ground. "We couldn't find them. Maybe they were killed. Maybe they deserted."

"What we did find," Lucatiel said, moving over to the map, "were tracks." She pointed to the strait and traced a line from it into the woods east of the camp. "A dozen—perhaps more—crossed the strait last night."

"Mantle?"

"Who else?" the commander asked. He gestured to a point east of camp. "There was a battle here, between the Mantle raiding party and our incoming supplies. We lost their trail soon after."

"And?"

"Mantle won."

I supposed I should have been pleased.

* * *

 **I forgot to mention last chapter, but part of its purpose was to show the level of technology available on either side.**

 **Anyway, this chapter showcases both the strength _and_ weakness of the first-person thing. It lets me skip over the fine details of events that are only really important to the plot and not to, say, a particular character's development (specifically the ambush of the supply train). It's a double edged sword, though: just because something isn't really that important doesn't mean it couldn't be interesting. I did toy with having Lucatiel sneak Vengarl out with her because, well, she can do what she wants, but decided against it because it'd be ultimately pointless.**

 **Following on that in terms of content rather than style, this serves as a proper introduction to Lucatiel, Commander Arc, and their differing values. I can confidently say that the character I'm most comfortable writing so far is Lucatiel, which is odd because I thought she'd be the most difficult.**

* * *

 **Omake: The Round Table**

"-European swallow?"

They were not the only words that burst into being throughout the grand hall, but they were the loudest. The crowned bearded man who'd said it pursed his lips, glancing around the table. "...I was in the middle of something," he said.

"Sure you were," said a beardless man with golden hair and a rather strong jawline.

"Which one of you summoned us here?" asked the only woman at the table.

"I did." A man with silver hair and two wolfish ears stood, nodding to them in turn.

"Ah," the crowned bearded man said wisely. "Of course."

"You have no idea who I am," the wolf said, deadpan.

"Preposterous! Your name is... Arthur?"

Not a single face was without a palm. "We're all Arthurs!" the wolf said. " _All_ of us are Arthurs!"

"Except me," the woman added quietly.

"Then I'm not wrong, am I?" European-swallow-Arthur said smugly.

The wolf rolled his eyes. "I, Arthur Quill of the RWBY-Souls-verse, called you here. This meeting of the Arthurs of the Round Table is now in session." Arthur Quill could already feel the headache building behind his eyes. Really, he ought to have gotten high before calling the meeting. It made things slightly more bearable. What an utter _nightmare_ the other Arthurs could be...

Oh. They were waiting for him to continue. "My Mordred is coming for me," he said. "I am unsure how to proceed."

One of the Arthurs stirred—Quill recalled that he preferred to be called 'The Winter King'. "Is he fit to rule as king?"

"Winter, I'm not a king anyway."

The woman at the table shifted her weight forwards, her gauntlets clanking a little. "It was my understanding that all Arthurs are kings."

"Well, we're not all high-and-mighty self-righteous noble bastards, are we?" Quill quipped.

"Did I strike a nerve?" She sighed. "Never mind. Let us settle the matter at hand so we may return to our own duties. We have all walked the Road to Camlann in silence."

"I don't even have a Mordred," European-swallow-Arthur sulked.

"Pfft," said the beardless Arthur. "You're hardly an Arthur anyway. You're a parody."

"And you're not even the protagonist of your own legend," the woman pointed out. "Moving on-"

"You're one to talk; you're only a protagonist for a _third_ of your story _and_ you don't even share our name!" Beardless-Arthur began to turn to address somebody who wasn't there, saying as eh did so, "Care to chime in, Mer- oh. Right. I see. Sorry, Artoria."

Artoria regarded Beardless-Arthur with a deadpan for a moment before returning her attention to Quill. "What worries you so much about your Mordred? Is he significantly different to ours?"

"Well... he's my son, but he's not named Mordred, for a start."

"Are you sure he's your Mordred, then?" The Winter King asked. "Mine was my nephew."

"I'm sure," Quill said. "He's not an abomination of incest either."

"Neither was mine," The Winter King chimed.

"Nor mine... kind of," Artoria said.

"Or mine either," Beardless-Arthur said. "I don't think so, anyway. He was certainly a nightmare, let me tell you..."

"I still don't have one," European-swallow-Arthur said.

"Look, fine, I get it," Quill said. "Thing is... well, I think he's better than I am." He hung his head. He _wanted_ his son to be better. But Quill didn't trust himself to be good enough to raise a son. Not after how he'd treated the mother. "My Morganna didn't hide him away. I left. I thought I'd just mess him up." Quill was a slave to his vices. He knew that.

"What is his name?" The Winter King asked.

"Artorias."

The other Arthurs gave each other sharp nods. "You flatter me," Artoria said. "That settles it."

"Huh?"

"For being a drug-riddled ignoble terrorist disgrace to the legend upon which you are—loosely—based, we, the-"

"Get on with it!" European-sparrow-Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

"Basically, we hate you," Beardless-Arthur said. "You only come to us when you need help and never offer advice of your own. You're usually high in these meetings anyway."

"Heh. Yeah."

"We're banishing you," The Winter King said. "Once your Mordred kills you—I can't believe we're saying this—we'll invite him to take your place at the table. The RWBY-Souls-verse needs a representative, and Gwyn just wouldn't bite."

* * *

 **I've said before that Arthur and Artorias are _very_ loosely based on an Arthur/Mordred role reversal. And, honestly, I'd love to write a fic with Artorias and Saber in the same world at some point...**

 **The moral of the story is this: Don't drink and write omakes, kids.**

 **Although, it _is_ Australia Day, so it's basically the most patriotic thing I could do.**

 **Next chapter - February 2nd.**


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